


He put the moves on you

by novak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future!Dean - Freeform, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novak/pseuds/novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds solace in himself, the militia-toughened Dean of 2014 with his hard eyes and eternally clenched jaw. He's intimidating, and his words bite every time he snaps at Dean, but the dominance sets something off beneath Dean's skin, something warm, humming, and needy.<br/>Dean spends his time with future-Dean, cleaning rifles and drinking too much whiskey, future-Dean filling the cramped 'office' with the sweeping, heavy smoke of his rolled cigarettes, filters bitten between his teeth and fingers stained yellow with tobacco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He put the moves on you

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, any mistakes are entirely my own
> 
> no explicit spoilers that i know of. 
> 
> probably badly written but i've wanted to do this for a while. i wanted to tide you lot over until i get another chapter of ventura highway out and publish another fic i'm still working on, too.

There's something about this futuristic Castiel that sets Dean's nerves on edge and has heartache leaching through his veins like poison. Dean supposes that it's because this isn't Cas, not really; this is a man, a broken man, a fallen man, and Dean doesn't know him. Not anymore. 

He finds solace in himself, the militia-toughened Dean of 2014 with his hard eyes and eternally clenched jaw. He's intimidating, and his words bite every time he snaps at Dean, but the dominance sets something off beneath Dean's skin, something warm, humming, and needy.  
Dean spends his time with future-Dean, cleaning rifles and drinking too much whiskey, future-Dean filling the cramped 'office' with the sweeping, heavy smoke of his rolled cigarettes, filters bitten between his teeth and fingers stained yellow with tobacco. 

"Smoking's not good for you, you know," Dean finally says, and he's not used to the way his own eyes stare at him accusingly. He wonders if this is the way Sammy used to feel when Dean would 'assert his dominance' - glare at his younger brother and tackle him to the floor - but the thought sends a flicker of pain through his chest and he takes another shot to forget.  
"Y'know what, man? Livin' ain't too good for me right now, either, but I ain't gonna stop that any time soon."  
Dean looks down at his empty cup, playing with the details melted into the glass for a moment before he puts it back on the table and watches as future-Dean (he doesn't know what else to call him) pours him another shot's worth. He takes it gratefully in small sips, baring his teeth as the liquor burns its way down is throat like venom. 

They sit like this for another hour, drinking and talking in snide remarks and offhand comments until Dean is too drunk to stand properly, too drunk to focus on his own face that watches him from across the small, round table they're sitting at. Green eyes wrinkle around the edges and Dean recognises his own amusement, slurs out, "Why're y' laughin' at me?" with furrowed brows.  
His double studies him for some time, resting his jaw on the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, before he leans back and gestures at his lap. "C'mere."  
"Why?"  
" _C'mere_ , I said."

Dean looks at him like a cautious child looks at a stranger. "Okay."

He gets up, alcohol rushing and making him sway until he's close enough that future-Dean takes hold of his hips, steadies him, brings him down to straddle his lap. Dean gets a faceful of himself, nose crushed against future-Dean's neck while he's manhandled into a more comfortable position, broad hands gripping at his ass, pressing at the small of his back, moulding him into place. Future-Dean smells of sweat and blood and gunpowder. Dean takes a deep inhale, shudders, dips his back as he feels callous-rough fingers slide beneath the hem of his shirt.  
"You're pretty, y'know," future-Dean murmurs, full, chapped lips brushing against Dean's sweat-caked hairline.  
Dean laughs but it comes out more a giggle, drunken and girlish, and he retorts, "I'm _you_." He feels future-Dean shrug before there's a hand against his face, a thumb roughing up his stubble with a dry scrape of skin. He looks up obediently and feels like a girl as he arches into the kiss he knows is coming, lips parted, desperate as he clutches the open lapels of future-Dean's plaid button-down. 

The kiss is strange, fluid, and Dean doesn't quite know how to feel when he drunkenly stumbles across the knowledge that he's submitting to himself. When future-Dean's hand finds his fly, though, he can't find it in himself to care.  
He gets up, unsteady, dizzy with the rush of blood and booze, and he sits on the table, thighs spread, inviting future-Dean closer with a positively pornographic thrust of his hips. His cock bulges beneath his cotton briefs, its outline visible as it presses through the open 'v' of Dean's trousers.  
Future-Dean is on him like a fever, all heat and sweat and desperation. He wonders if he's dreaming, knows he's _not_ when future-Dean sinks a claiming, brutal bite into his neck. There'll be a mark. Dean tries to ignore the way his cock jumps with the realisation. 

Future-Dean gets their cocks out with the type of fluidity that only comes with practise and Dean tries to chase away images of himself with Cas; they haven't done that yet, he doesn't know if they'll ever do that, but there's something in the way that future-Dean and future-Castiel look at each other that signals something deeper, something more carnal than the emotional bullshit Dean deals with in present times.  
Thankfully, _all_ thoughts are erased when future-Dean fists their cocks in a spit-slick hand, thrusting against the velvet of Dean's length with his own identical. They fit together perfectly, all the same angles falling into all the same nooks, and Dean tries to forget the way he's whimpering into his own mouth as they kiss, hungry and deprived as their cocks drool clear, sticky precome to ease the way. He doesn't last long. Their complex language of kisses and bites and licks and thrusts does him in; future-Dean knows everything he likes, knows he likes when his cock is pulled a little too roughly, knows the way Dean arches when he tugs on his balls and presses two fingers into the smooth skin of his perineum. 

Dean comes loudly, his back arching from the table where future-Dean pushed him down against it, hips gyrating, pushing his cock into future-Dean's tight, tight fist, fucking the vice of his fingers. When he's done, future-Dean moves away and he's about to whine until he reappears beside his head, cock in hand.  
"Can I blow my load on your face?" he asks, and Dean is ashamed in how quickly he responds, "Yes, please, God, yes," his voice hoarse with sex and liquor. 

It takes future-Dean a mere five tugs of his cock to spurt across his identical's face, ribbons decorating freckles and eyelashes, the bridge of Dean's nose and the smooth pout of a full mouth. His cock twitches in his hand when Dean's tongue flickers out, slick and pink, to lick at what is essentially his own seed splayed across his lips. 

Future-Dean, militia-Dean with his guns and rolled cigarettes and apparent inability to bathe regularly, is sad to know that what's left of Dean's hope will undoubtedly be destroyed when they encounter the empty, possessed shell of his brother in the morning.


End file.
